Saturday, November 26, 2011

Celebrate with a Family Story Slam!


I've got a great idea for your next family gathering!

But first - Don't forget you can give a loved on the gift of story this holiday season in a marvelous way. 

They've lived it, now help them learn how to share it at the Story@Home Conference!

At only $265 the gift package is one sweet deal. Your stories matter! Simply click on the link below and go to the registration tab. Don't forget your Family Story Slam tickets too!

Okay - now for the fun idea for your next family gathering!

Happy Holidays! 
Over the coming month or so families from all over will gather together to celebrate their unique bonds, reflect back on experiences shared, and focus on the things that matter most. I’m sure you’ve got some great plans up your sleeve already. I’ve got one more suggestion for you - Celebrate with a Family Story Slam!

We all have them: oft-told family tales we enjoy again and again. But sometimes, they get a little tired and worn out, or the details may fade away into family shorthand. A Family Story Slam is a great way to freshen them up and stir up some good old family competition in the process.


Family Story Slam
You’ll need:
A couple of sets of judges who’ll score the stories on a scale of 1 – 10.
A scorekeeper and scoreboard
A timekeeper with a kazoo or noise maker
Family storytellers
A Fabulous Prize
A Theme Topic such as:
Remember the time?
I’ve never been so afraid!
Wasn’t that funny?
I knew I was in trouble when… – etc.

Here’s how it works.
Put the names of everyone who wants to share a story in a hat. The timekeeper will draw their names one at a time. They’ll have 5 minutes and 5 minutes only to tell their tale. If they go over the timekeeper makes some noise. Now they have 20 seconds to wrap it up. If they fail, the timekeeper lovingly silences them.

Next the judges score the story. There are only 3 criteria: Was it ON TIME? Was it a STORY? Was it on TOPIC? They rate the criteria on a scale of one to ten and call out their scores to the scorekeeper who keeps tally on a board everyone can see.

The winner gets a prize!

Results: A great time had by all and you’ve given new life to those favorite family stories.

Note: Advertise this activity before everyone arrives to really fuel the excitement! Love the experience? Be sure to come to the Family Story Slam at Story@Home and bring your story to a brand new audience!


That’s all you need to get the party started, but If you’re interested in knowing more read on. 




The Rules
·        Story must be true and from your life.
·        Story must be told in five minutes or less.
·        Story must be told live, without notes.
·        Story may be told by one or more people together – but must not exceed 5 minutes.

Tips
Chat over the story with your family.
Clarify your memories.
Compose your story.
(Remember, it’s not a story unless it leads us through an incident that ends in some sort of progress, discovery, or learning.)
Practice your story!
(Remember you don’t get a cheat sheet)
Practice so you can keep it down to five minutes.
(Beware the consequences of going over . . . muwahahah)
Tell it to your plants, pets, spouse, kids or mirror.
 (But know they are a tough audience.)
Revise, Rework, Revamp, Finesse
Shave off another two minutes


The Moth of New York City created the Story Slam model. (www.themoth.org)

Monday, November 21, 2011

Have a Ball - A Gratitude Ball

Happy Thanksgiving!

I love, love, love this holiday. The food, the family, the gratitude - what's not to love?!! I wanted to share a fun little tip for sharing the things your family is grateful for. Some of my daughters came up with this at our last family reunion and we had a BALL! ;o)

Here's how it works.
You Need:
1 Large Ball
Multiple Sharpie Markers
Family


Throughout your time together everyone draws on the ball the things they are grateful for.
 All ages can do this. It's not about artistic ability, it's about thinking what you are grateful for and how to illustrate that. You'll be amazed at how seriously the little ones take this and what they come up with!

At the close of your time together everyone shows what they drew and tells what those pictures mean to them. It's a great way to keep folks busy, get them laughing, and get them talking, without them feeling like they are put on the spot.























Plus, the ball holds the memories long after the gathering is over. Every time you get back together the ball is available for play and remembering. Fun! Fun!








Enjoy! May your week be filled with excellent family moments, heartfelt reflections of gratitude, and yummy food. I hope you have a BALL!

Monday, November 14, 2011

Story@Home for Christmas

No doubt the Story@Home conference is going to be phenomenal. Every family has stories that need to be told and there has never been such a broad variety for sharing brought together in one place before. Yet, March seems so far away. Don't make the mistake of thinking you shouldn't worry about it until next year!

NOW is the time to plan. You matter - so do your stories!  If you could give someone this incredible weekend filled with the power of story for $65 off the list price, would you? Well guess what - You can!!








     


Package Price:  $265
Includes:
Full Conference Registration $79
2 Nights Hotel $198
Story Chat Cards $15.50
Storytelling CD $15
30 Days Blogging/Photo Prompts $12
"Tell Me Who I Am" Book $11.99
Guaranteed iTell Reservation
Gift Wrap
A retail value of $330+

Simply click on the Story@Home link below then go to the registration tab. Don't forget your Family Story Slam tickets too!

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Story@Home

Photo by Carol Rice
There's a running joke in our family that probably sounds pretty ridiculous. Whenever we see anything that looks remotely like a wagon wheel someone invariably says, "Is that supposed to look like a wagon wheel?" It's one of those family short hand tag lines that carry a depth of story behind it. We all break into laughter while non-family members look on, confused. Every family has such love-filled family code. 


The stories of our family, and our family history, define us and inform us. Story is the hub of the wheel of who we are. Remove the hub and the wheel collapses. Remove the hub and the remaining parts of the wheel can never be re-connected - until a new story hub is created. Maintain the hub and the connections remain solid and purposeful. It applies to families and it applies to the world. Story is the hub of humanity.
The face of how family history is contained is changing. Social media and the Internet are building up a new interpretation of how we share and learn our family's stories. I'm so delighted and proud to be a part of an innovative conference that triumphs STORY as the hub of all it offers. A unique gathering of masters from the worlds of blogging, family history, and storytelling is taking place in March of 2012 in Salt Lake City, Utah. Like spokes on a wheel these presenters are joining together around the hub of story. 
Every presenter is passionately committed to the premise that your story matters, and who you are is important. Whether the story is as fresh as yesterday, a time-honored tale from the past, or somewhere in between each story melds together and creates who you are. Together these presenters will guide participants forward into the wonderful world of harvesting, fine-tuning, and sharing their tales. 
I feel so blessed to be a part of all this. It’s not very often in life one gets to be involved in something that feels so epic! The Story@Home conference is hosted by the largest genealogical organization in the world, Family Search International. The conference is sponsored by Cherish Bound, the only on-line publisher in the world dedicated to helping every family create a library of their cherished family stories. It is also sponsored by the Casual Blogger Network, a dynamic network of blogs targeting extraordinary women doing phenomenal things in the normal course of their lives. 
These organizations, and the presenters they have invited to participate, powerfully illustrate the reality that the world is beginning to recognize story as the hub of our identity. Strengthen and maintain the hub, and you strengthen the world.

Story@Home
I can’t help but snicker, “Is it supposed to look like a wagon wheel?”

Learn more about Story@Home here:

Next week – What is a Family Story Slam?

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Harvest


I get paid to crawl inside people’s heads. I know, it sounds messy and invasive, but it’s true. I’m not a therapist I am a storyteller, a personal-story harvester. My job is to help people discover the meaningful moments of their lives and guide them as they craft those moments into stories they can share. The goal is not necessarily publication. What these individuals do with the results of our time together is totally up to them. Our purpose is to excavate their memories, memories of life’s moments that have influenced the people they have become. Our quest is to craft the memory into something usable, something they can share. How they choose to share is up to them. The sharing may be done in the most intimate of settings, or it may be simply a personal exercise of reflection, or it may evolve into a performance piece. As their story guide I stand ready to walk beside them on the path they have chosen. I may lead them to the path, but they take me into the wood. Every encounter leaves me changed and enlightened. Long after our time together has passed their stories linger with me, their memories still whisper in my head. Their moments have become my moments. I am one person and yet the memories of many swirl within me.

* * *

Maria was fourteen, her memory was more than fresh, it was current.

“I want to talk about the day I became invisible. Have you ever been invisible? It sneaks up on you, at least it snuck up on me. You’d think I’d be more noticed than ever, nope, I’m invisible. I always had tons of friends and was always invited to every party. Most boys love me, but some girls hate me, because I can steal their boyfriends so easily. Then I got pregnant. I kept it secret for a long time. But some secrets don’t stay hidden, they just pop out for all the world see. At first everyone thought I was getting fat, but they could still see me. Fat people aren’t invisible, but pregnant girls are. It started with the boys first. They’d laugh and flirt like they always had then they’d see me rest my hand on my stomach or pull my jacket over my bump and they’d go stone cold silent. Some of them even walked away mid conversation. I’d be like, “Word – wassup?” They’d just keep on walking. The girls weren’t far behind. At first they were all full of advice for me. Telling me how to get rid of it, telling me how to keep it from my parents, telling me it served me right…yeah, they had all sorts of advice. But when they found out I was keeping it, well, it freaked them out I guess. So, they stopped talking to me. They stopped inviting me to parties. They stopped saving me a seat at lunch. It’s like I have a contagious disease. The teachers, yeah, they don’t know what to do with me either. They tried sending me to counseling at first, but they didn’t like my plan. They were real interested when they thought it was my dad’s or some older guys, but once they believed me about who the father was, they stopped wanting to know more. They talked about me dropping out and coming back after the baby was born. It would be ‘easier’ for everyone. I can finish 9th grade before the kid comes. That’s what’s easiest for me. Then I’ll have the summer to play ‘mom’ and come back in the Fall. Now, I’m just invisible. They don’t call on me. I got kicked off the soccer team. They never ask how I feel or how I am. Yeah, I messed up, I know that, but invisible? That’s just cold. I wonder if that will ever change, I wonder if they’ll ever see me again. Or am I trapped in some weird gray space where no one else knows how to deal? Gray and cold and empty - that’s what it feels like to be invisible.”

* * *

Joe was an old man, his face covered with the kind of wrinkles you get from hard living in the out of doors. He never did tell me his age, but his story provided some clues.

“I remember a blanket I used to sleep under when I was a kid. It was patchwork. Some squares had military insignias and bars. Some squares had pockets. Some were white and some were navy and some were olive green. It was real heavy and sort of scratchy. I don’t know whatever happened to that old quilt. I wish I had it now. My mother used to tuck me and my three brothers in bed every night under that one quilt. It seemed like the nights we were always cold when I was a boy. It seemed like the wind would always blow. Wind and dust, that’s what I remember the most, it was enough to drive you crazy, the wind blew all the dirt away so the crops wouldn’t grow. The wind blew my father away too, when the crops failed he had to go look for work somewhere. He never came back either. Checks would come in the mail sometimes, but we never saw him again. My mother used to sing about good times coming back someday when she’d tuck us in. Her voice was clear and sweet, like her blue eyes. But those eyes always welled up with tears when she’d tuck us in. Her fingers would run over the patches and pockets and stripes on our quilts as she’d tell us about Johnny, and Richard, and Ray, and Frank. They were her brothers, they’d run off to fight in the Great War. The ‘war to end all wars,’ she’d call it. None of them ever came home, just telegrams followed by boxes of worn uniforms and random trinkets. She made the quilt from their uniforms. I guess she got in a lot of trouble for cutting up those uniforms at first. But times were hard and the fabric was warm and it’s not like anyone was getting any use out of the uniforms. Turns out her parents ended up leaving it out so everyone could see it. There was something special about that old quilt. She said she could just about hear the voices of her brothers when she slipped under that quilt. It’s just about the only thing she took with her when she got married. She told us her brothers would watch over us, just like the quilt kept us warm. Her voice would get all misty when she’d talk about them. I sure wish I could remember those stories. I sure wish I still had that old quilt.

* * *

Thomas was seventy-five, but the memory of that summer day hung powerfully before his eyes.

“We were just boys, just silly carefree boys. It was a classic Maryland summer; you know the kind, when it’s hot and humid to the core. The kind of heat that clings to you, it drips off ya’, ya’ know? It threatens to melt you into mud. I guess it was clear back in the 50’s some time. Yeah, I couldn’t have been more than 11 or 12. My friends and I went down to the canal to swim. We were just going to jump in and cool off, but there was this old man sitting on the bank right where we wanted to get in. He was all dark and shriveled up like a raisin. He wore thick metal braces on his twisted legs. He must have had the polio. Times were different back then. Sure, we’d been taught to respect our elders, but this was a black man. We should have known better but boys seem to soak up the attitudes of their time, ya’ know? This was back in the day when we still had separate drinking fountains, separate entrances, and separate bus seats. Why couldn’t we have separate canal spots too? He was in our favorite spot and that just wouldn’t do. It was our spot, not his, he shouldn’t have been there. So we started scooping up mud clods and throwing them at him. Have you ever seen Maryland mud? It’s rust red and stains your hands and knees. It’s real thick and holds tight to whatever it touches. The mud clods stuck firm around his braces and naked back. When I close my eyes I can still hear the sticky clumps slapping up against his flesh. Truth be told, it haunts me still. In no time at all he was covered. He never said a word, just looked at us with deep set, sad, brown eyes. The weight of that sorrow slumped down from his eyes and across his cheeks, pulling his skin down with it. Everything sagged like mud, his eyes, his cheeks, his timid smile. He pulled and pushed at the mud, smearing it more than removing it. When he stood up and tried to wipe off the mud, we stopped throwing the clods, but not our words.

“Go away old man, we don’t want your kind here.”

“Sure hope you’re not here when I come back with my pa. He’ll teach you a lesson, sure.”

He nodded at us as his started to turn away. Then I guess he didn’t like the way the mud felt all twisted around his braces so he waded into the canal. The shallows gave way real fast and he was in over his head in no time. That’s when we realized he was in trouble. It must have been the weight of his braces that pulled him down. His arms seemed strong enough, but they started to flail as his head slipped under the water. Water running red with mud, water so thick you couldn’t see through it. His head came up once, twice, three times and then he was gone, just gone. We stood there with red stained hands waiting and waiting for him to rise back up, but he never did.

It drove our mama’s crazy, the way we came home wet and dripping with mud and water. They bemoaned how hard it would be to get us clean. We striped off our overalls before we ever came in the kitchen. We scrubbed and scrubbed at those red stains, but they wouldn’t come out. I guess there’s just some stains that never come out.”

* * *

Memories are powerful and they have an incredibly long shelf life. Most of the people I work with end up focusing on thoughts and images they had not considered for a very long time. Something happens during our time together to trigger the recollection. Frequently the renewed memory opens them up to a deeper understanding about themselves and how they view the world.

Many cultures suggest you cannot find peace with a person until you know their story. I have found you cannot dislike someone once you know his or her story. In deed, knowing the stories of those who surround us opens our hearts to forgiveness and tolerance. We become more compassionate through the sharing of personal story. We become more sure of who we are and the values that support us. We become more grounded in seeing the good in this world.

So, the next time you feel frustration rising up within you towards another, take a moment to listen to their story!

Sunday, May 08, 2011

Book Review: Tales From a Free-Range Childhood


Donald Davis.

Merely mentioning the name brings smiles to people's faces and images into people's hearts. That is, if they've been lucky enough to hear Donald tell one of his stories. (www.ddavisstoryteller.com)

If you don't recognize the name, you should. Donald Davis is the author of recently released, Tales from a Free-Range Childhood. (Available from Blair Publishing
www.blairpub.com)

Davis grew up in a different age when children were allowed to run more freely and fill their days in ways no one could schedule (or possibly imagine). Two hundred and thirty pages of unique reminiscences of growing up in a different era comprise this unpresumptuous little paper back. You may be tempted to declare you're not interested, but that would be a mistake.

Davis is a gifted writer and storyteller to be sure, but this is more than a simple biography. Davis at once entertains and enlightens. Whether you're reading about broken bones or old cars or old babysitters, Davis is weaving a spell that must be experienced to be believed. With perfect timing and delightful imagery he invites you into his world. Yet, while sharing tales uniquely his own he opens up a place of unique memory within your own heart. You'll be reading his stories, but you'll be remembering long forgotten moments from your own life.

This is the kind of book you'll read again and again as you share it with family and friends. That's when the magic happens. No matter who you share this book with you're sure to get lots of great memories and moments shared in return. Conversations will open up and for a moment you may just think you're back on grandma's front porch, just shooting the breeze with loved ones.

So what are you waiting for? Curl up with a good book!
Tales from a Free-Range Childhood by Donald Davis.
http://www.blairpub.com/